Enlighten Up
by the.goal.is.greatness
Summary: [Sequel to Alcohol and Cigarettes] Not knowing is Buddha. [Gojyo x Sanzo] [5x1]


**Title:** Enlighten Up  
**Genre:** Romance / Humor  
**Rating:** M  
**Pairing:** Gojyo x Sanzo  
**Spoilers:** N/A  
**Summary:** Not knowing is Buddha.  
**Word Count:** 2,137  
**Warnings:** 5x1

**Disclaimer:** _Saiyuki _is not mine. Summary is a proverb.

**A/N:** Sequel to _Alcohol and Cigarettes_, but can potentially be read as a standalone.

* * *

1.

Sanzo wakes in a tangle of sheets that's borderline too tight and a tangle of limbs that's borderline too hot. It takes him several long moments to realize where he is and who he was with. The realization comes with the painful twinge from beneath him that reminds him with sudden and vivid clarity how he wound up here. There's another long moment when he contemplates waking his strange bedfellow with a hail of bullets and curses.

But he doesn't know where his gun is, probably on the floor in the mess of his clothing.

So it seems the easiest thing to do would be to slink out of bed, gingerly moving arms and legs and swathes of hair out of his way, thanking all the deities in heaven that Gojyo is so deeply and drunkenly asleep that he does nothing but roll over and continue to snore.

After he collects his clothes, he stares down at his companion for contemplative minute, taking in the curve of cheek, the tendrils of hair brushing narrow lips, the sweep of ridiculously long eyelashes. It takes a great amount of effort to shake his head and leave the room.

His new plan is to forget this ever happened. And that it was all his idea.

* * *

2.

It is a great plan. A brilliant plan. But there is one problem that he didn't foresee. And that was the fact that every time he saw Sha Gojyo he remembered the most random moments from an evening he was doing his best to forget.

And Sha Gojyo was everywhere it seemed.

Sanzo would come down for dinner just as the demon was taking a long pull from a bottle of beer, and he'd suddenly remember those lips occupied with a completely different task and he'd be rock hard in a matter of moments. They'd be walking, all four of them, and he'd glance to the side and red hair would be blowing in a breeze and his fingers would itch to fist it in his hands. Gojyo twirls his staff in a fight and long, elegant fingers slide up the shaft and Sanzo trips over his robes in the middle of a fight and is almost decapitated.

Forgetting that night, it appears, is a lot easier said than done.

But he does his damn best.

He ignores the redhead, pretending to not hear questions directed at him. He overlooks the glances, sometimes hesitant and shy, sometimes irritated and defiant, sometimes… sometimes hungry. Those are the hardest to ignore, because they mirror the want he feels clenching in his own gut. It is doable to ignore a person, to pretend they aren't that, that you cannot see or hear them.

But what he finds infinitely harder to pretend away are his own intrusive thoughts. The thought, loud and shouting and needy, that he really wants a repeat of that night.

* * *

3.

It is inevitable that one of them is injured eventually. Sanzo had, in his heart of hearts, thought that that person would, in fact, be Gojyo. But karma had a way of reaching out, grabbing you around the throat, and shaking you just to prove that it could. So the person who wound up bleeding from a sword swipe to the side was himself. He told himself that it was definitely not because he'd been distracted by making sure Gojyo's sudden shout wasn't due to an injury on his part, but he was also one hundred percent lying to himself.

His injury becomes immediately infected with a swiftness only brought on my poison and he spends five days teetering on the brink of awareness as he sweats and sweats and hallucinates.

In his dreams there are soft hands brushing back the sweaty hair from his brow and cooling his fevered skin with cold compresses. When he kicks and fights his way out of the blankets, they are tucked back into place. When His bandage needs to be changed, the hands that do it are long and graceful and trembling. They're a welcome balm of coolness against his hot skin and they make goosebumps break out and spread across his torso with a shiver. He finds himself trying to reach for those hands when they leave him, but he is too weak to accomplish it.

It makes him restless.

As he writhes, tossing to and fro in feverish agony, familiar hands stroke his arms, long fingers tickle his palms. They are languid touches, not meant to heal, but to relax and quiet him. They turn him pliant and needy, turning into the touches like he needs them to breathe.

When he manages to crack his eyes open and the first thing he sees are a worried pair of red hairs and a waterfall of crimson hair. He tells himself later that it's a dream.

But a dream doesn't explain the way Gojyo's eyes light up when Sanzo has finally recovered enough to ease his way down to breakfast two mornings later. A dream doesn't explain the way that the demon's hands make an abortive motion to grab the monk by the arms. And a dream doesn't explain why Sanzo, secretly, wishes that he had.

* * *

4.

For some reason, the memory (dream, he tells himself, like a liar) of Gojyo tenderly caring for him through his illness is harder to overcome than a singular night of drunken passion. It's hard, but he forces himself to pretend that the thought that someone might care for him – like that – doesn't make his chest clench. He's smoked more cigarettes this week that all of last month.

But without that moment to occupy his mind, his thoughts turn to other things. They turn back to being distracted by the way Gojyo's throat moves as he swallows, by the way he brushes his hair back from his face, or the way his hips sway as he walks. He means he falls asleep with these thoughts of his mind and it means he wakes with a throbbing reminder under his sheets of what he could be doing right now.

The first night, sheer force of will and the sudden appearance by some blood thirsty bandits, quell the urge to take himself in hand. But the second night it is harder to resist. He has a room to himself and the image in his mind – he doesn't know if it is a memory or a dream. He can't remember that night with perfect clarity, so he doesn't know if the image is Gojyo on his knees in from of him and sucking heat swallowing him down is real or imagined, but it makes him so hard he can feel his heartbeat throbbing in his rigid length.

There's a moment where years of being a monk tells him that this is a sin, but so is smoking and drinking and cursing, and that's never stopped him before. So it's with a sigh of relief that he takes himself in hand and strokes his length, letting his mind wander, trying not to do what he knows he wants to.

But trying to force the thought away just brings it more sharply into focus and with the image of a red-haired demon crawling up between his own spread thighs and it makes him thrust into his own hand with a grunt.

"_Fuck_."

There's no point in holding back, so he lets himself try and remember what it was like to be swallowed down by a willing mouth. His neck tingles with the memory of teeth and tongue, his mouth falls open in panting breaths as he remembers long fingers tweaking his nipples into hard peaks. He's leaking and aching and restlessly rolling on the bed, and a half-remembered moment from that night has had hurriedly shoving two of his fingers in his mouth before reaching down and, before he can be ashamed or embarrassed, shoved them inside and tried to emulate the feeling from before.

At first it hurts enough that he almost wilted with it, but then… pleasure.

It only takes a few more moments before he's coming into his hand like a randy teenager.

At the back of his mind is the thought that it was better before.

* * *

5.

That night seems to tear down a wall in his mind that leaves him free to think his wayward thoughts about his companion. To look at Gojyo and think, distinctly and knowingly, that he would like to taste Gojyo the way the other had tasted him. He thinks that he would like to lave his tongue across broad nipples and that he would like the leave sucking bruises on collarbones and hips. He wants to twine their fingers and limbs together until they are as knotted as a woven rope. He wants to feel that fullness again as Gojyo slides home. He wants to fill Gojyo until the half-demon can taste him.

He finds himself watching Gojyo across the table or over the campfire, his eyes tracing the contours of face and imagining the skin beneath it. He knows that his mannerisms are disturbing the others, he can sense the bewildered looks Goku sends Hakkai, and the shrug Hakkai offers in return. The only response he cares about it Gojyo's. The uneasy shifting, the side-eyed glances to see if Sanzo was watching him, the quick looks away. His superior height cannot hide the ruddy tinge to his cheeks when Sanzo quirks a brow. He cannot hide when his hands fumble and drop his lighter when Sanzo tilts his head at him.

It is… liberating. And suddenly, Sanzo doesn't want to forget things or to pretend things didn't happen. He wants to remember. And he wants to make new memories.

* * *

+1.

It is another series of nights before they are in a tavern, much like the first. The circumstances are almost the same. Goku is injured and Hakkai is hovering over him like a worried mother hen. The two of them sit in silence at their table, Gojyo fidgeting and refusing to look Sanzo in the eye. When the monk stands, the abrupt motion startles him, but still the warrior says nothing, just watches as Sanzo starts walking for the rooms.

He pauses at the entrance to the dining chamber and quirks an inquisitive brow at him. "Well, aren't you coming?" The meaning is clear, and Gojyo stands and follows in a flurry of motion and spilled bottles. The walk to their shared room is short, but the tension between them is palpable. Sanzo doesn't allow himself a moment to think, to dwell, as the cross the threshold and the door clicks closed behind them. He merely acts.

"What – "

But it's his turn to swallow the questions down with his mouth. It is his turn to sink to his knees and relish the gasp of surprise turning into a rumbling moan. It's his turn to splay his hands across trembling thighs and to reach up and brush the flat nipples and to try and still the thrusting hips. It is his turn to scrap his teeth against the pulsing length in his mouth and the swallow down the release, as he relishes the sounds of pleasure spilling from the mouth above him, his scalp aching from the tight hold Gojyo has on him.

He is too big and heavy for Sanzo to catch when he crumples after his release, and the two wind up splayed on the hard floor in a tangle of limbs. Gojyo is panting, trying to catch his breath, and trembling in aftershocks against him. Every now and then his hips give a jerking thrust and Sanzo feels an answering spasm of his own as his body seeks its own release.

"What…" Gojyo swallows and finally steadies his breathing. "What was that for?"

Sanzo manages a partial shrug from their awkward position on the floor. "I wanted to know what you tasted like."

His response makes Gojyo groan into his throat and he feels him twitch in interest against his hip. The motion makes Sanzo arch upwards, seeking just a little bit of friction against his leaking length. Gojyo grinds down against the motion and it makes his sigh turn into a choking groan. But nothing more than that. Sanzo had assumed it would be like that other night, all passion boiling over. Not this slow burn, these soft words and tender touches.

It is enlightening.

"We should move."

Gojyo stiffens so suddenly Sanzo has to think about what he just said. He doesn't understand until Gojyo stands to force himself into a sitting position and tries to untangle himself from the monk. "Yeah, you're right, I'll go and see where – "

He breaks off abruptly when Sanzo leans up on his elbows and kisses him. Not a battle of teeth and tongue, just a simple brush of lips against lips. But it effectively silences him. "I meant to the bed, you idiot."

Gojyo's smile, as it blooms against his lips, is as bright as the gates of Heaven.


End file.
